


Every Single Imperfection

by Val_Creative



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF Kink Meme, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cousin Incest, Dirty Talk, Flirting, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Pre-Canon, Romantic Friendship, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 23:27:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13375320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: No trueborn Stark should ever be on his lips. He doesn't deserve the shape and heat of Robb's mouth opening, tasting honeyed apples on him.





	Every Single Imperfection

**Author's Note:**

> I'VE MISSED THEM. SIGHHHHHH. This goes into the prompt on asoiafkinkmeme: " **[Robb shares his experiences at the brothel with Jon [etc, etc]](http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/3041.html?thread=1089249)** " and if anyone out there still loves these two as well, I hope you loved this! Comments/thoughts appreciated!

 

*

"What do you know about girls, Snow?"

Jon pauses with the sharpening stone pressing to a blade, hunching over his work-bench. He senses the overconfidence and teasing nature of Robb's question. The fact of the matter is Robb's always like this after his visit to a brothel outside of Winterfell's castle.

"… They're very pretty," Jon says quietly. "Smell nice."

And there's not much more to go on.

He's not like Robb.

Jon does not have the trueborn reputation or gold coins to spare for any practiced, idle lovemaking. Hells, Jon doubts he would spare riches for any of that at all.

Not that a lack of experience or interest doesn't make him a _mooncalf_ , or anything of that sort…

Jon lifts himself over the bench's seat, but suddenly unable to find his momentum when Robb approaches him from the other side, grinning boyishly-wide. Jon lands with a soft, muted of padded leather onto his bottom, eyes widening slightly. His features rosy with the previous exertion.

Robb's palm grazes the tip of Jon's pommel, his gloved fingers flexing and clenching down softly.

"Whores are different," he explains to Jon, sure and steady. Robb's grin spreads open, revealing his teeth and pink gums. "Highborn _girls_ won't let you fuck them in the arse."

Jon's heart rabbits. He doesn't squirm under the purposeful intensity of Robb's gaze, but it does feel like bits of _fire_ pinprick every inch of him.

"It's not different from a cunt, if you imagine it like that… tight, _hot_ …" Robb's opposite hand clutches onto the bench, nudging Jon's hip as he situates himself beside Jon, tilting his head. "Which would satisfy you better…?"

Jon says nothing, exhaling noisily when Robb's finger tug playfully on a curl of his sable hair.

"S'alright, we're only talking," Robb says with a more deeper, gentler tone, squeezing one of Jon's shoulders reassuringly. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want, Jon. I swear it."

He's still avoiding eye-contact, but there's not much of a barrier against Robb's curiosity.

" _It_ …" Jon licks his lips. "It doesn't matter."

There's reprieve and dread in confessing this.

Robb's laughter sings in the air, rumbling and low. Brief like warm summer rain. A flash- _heat_.

Jon feels like he's swallowed down a flask of dream-wine with no room for a breath, causing him to float away. Robb, and his alluring, handsome grin — by the seven hells, he's no craven — but Jon has to hold off the powerful urge to _flee_ when Robb leans in and kisses him.

No trueborn Stark should ever be on his lips. He doesn't deserve the shape and heat of Robb's mouth opening, tasting honeyed apples.

Jon's grease-dirtied fingernails scrape over the auburn scruff to Robb's cheeks, when he kisses him back, sliding his tongue inside, clumsily holding onto Robb's front and fisting his doublet.

"You're a terrible kisser," Robb whispers, laughing again. His Tully blue eyes soft-sweet.

Jon's face burns brightly, and he half-scowls, chuckling aloud despite how gruffly Jon seizes onto the other man, pulling Robb onto his lap.

"Are you offering lessons?"

"Think I'm offering _more_ than that," Robb says cheerfully, nose-to-nose, unlacing his trousers.

"… I'm not your whore, Stark," Jon tells him pointedly, returning to solemn for a moment.

He would be more than happy to… with Robb…

 _But_ …

Gloved fingers hesitate, flattening to Jon's abdomen. "I know," Robb says, staring him in the eye, before embracing him and running his fingers into a mess of black curls. " _I know, Jon_."

He silently nods against him, grasping onto Robb's sides, bringing back his attention and melding their mouths together. Jon tries to not imagine what the reaction might be if they're caught, by either a guardsmen or Catelyn Stark. Nothing good will come of it.

Jon's smallclothes grow damp and sticky on his prick, when the heel of Robb's palm grinds down on him in circular motions, slower, fast.

Faster.

 _Slow_.

(Girls are nice, he supposes. They're pretty. Pretty like Robb's broad, exhilarated smile.)

*

 


End file.
